It's Always Time

by Oblimo

  SB bent forward. "God." Her lips hovered inches from the head of Yves cock. "Oh, God." She wrapped both hands around Yves' throbbing shaft, pushed its head between her lips. Yves whimpered and seized. SB sobbed—"Oh, God,"—around the head of his cock. He came.

  And SB wept and nursed on his cum as if their lives depended on it.

  "Holy shit," said Yves when SB finally rocked backward. "The only other time I've cum that fast and hard before, I was alone. And seventeen." SB tried to laugh but only gasped for air. Yves asked, "Nanogasms?" SB nodded, eyes crossed, and Yves added, "You just gave me a massive macrogasm, SB. You deserve more than a little blood music." Yves sat up, bare chest filmed in sweat, and eyed the mammoth bulge in SB's dress. "Why aren't you naked?"

  He reached out, one hand following the distending curve of SB's dress. SB's hard-on grew and throbbed, as wide as Yves' hand, beneath his touch. I only caught a glimpse of her at the store, he thought, taking the hem of SB's dress in both hands. SB bit her lip as Yves sat close, drawing her dress upward. I know she's big, Dee said she was humungous, but how big could she possibly—"Ow," Yves said, as the head of SB's dick bopped him on the nose.

  Yves gawked at a candy-red, fist-sized cock-head, polished in maraschino-cherry pre-cum and crowning about three feet of rose-red shaft. The whole package looked crystalline and fleshy at the same time. Veins like chiseled rose quartz somehow pulsed with life. SB worried her lip and searched his face with anxious eyes. Her childlike pout put Yves over the edge, and he laughed so hard he had to hold on to the sides of his head.

  "No one," SB muttered, then shifted and raised her voice over Yves' delighted cackling. "No one has ever laughed at my dick before. Ever."

  "Why not?" Yves wiped tears from his eyes. "It's amazing. You're amazing, SB. I mean, look at you. You've got the biggest penis on the planet and you're still insecure. If a three foot cock can't make a dickgirl confident, mortal men are doomed."

  SB threw her head back and cracked up, her dress cinched around her belly. Her glans bobbed and weaved as she shook with laughter. Yves tracked the red cock-head's perambulations with his eyes, more amused and amazed than mesmerized. "You've got to tell me, how on Earth do you and Tomoe…relate?"

  "She's lost a little weight since we first met," SB snickered.

  Yves knew he would not get any better answer than that, and his mind was elsewhere anyway. "Well." He cracked his knuckles. "In for a penny…" He reached out again, with both hands this time.

  SB shied to the side. "Wait."

  Yves' fingertips hovered, poised to grasp. "Why?" His eyebrows waggled. "I'm really good at this bit."

  "I know. Wow, do I know." She sighed. "That's the point. But cumming costs me nanomek, and, Yves, you turn me into a walking fire hose."

  Dropping a gentle hand to SB's knee, Yves said, "I feel wonderful, SB. Better than I've felt in years. Awake, alive." He gave SB's knee an eager squeeze. "Horny. Hell, you probably saved my life. I want to share, SB. I need to." His hand inched up SB's thigh. "Sex is something that happens between two people, SB, and I want it to happen to you so good you'll see stars. Why are you so nervous?"

  "Not nervous." SB leaned in for a sweet kiss but pushed Yves' hand away. "I'm not done sharing with you yet, that's all."

  Or you're still too nervous to let me take the lead. "Very well." Yves swooned onto the blanket, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. "Have your way with me, you cad." SB goosed Yves on the big toe, stood up, and walked straight past him. Her shadow fell across his face, soon followed by her dress. "Hey." He rolled over and looked up, the fiery dress dangling from his hair like a unwound turban.

  SB stood naked at the water's edge. Her broad, sinewy back tapered down to a trim waist and a thick, traffic-stopping ass. Yves asked, "Are we skinny dipping?" SB turned and presented Yves with her profile, adding the high curves of her bust and impossible scimitar of her cock to the mix. Her substance possessed a milky translucence and the sun lit her up. She glowed from within, radiating a buttery aura, and Yves could only breathe, "My God."

  "Actually, you need to stay onshore." SB stepped into the reservoir. Waves lapped at her ankles. "No matter what happens, no matter what you see, you can't touch the water. Understand?"

  Some small part of Yves wanted to quip at the corny, fairytale instruction, but it was overruled by his awe of her beauty and the certainty in her voice. He nodded.

  "Good." She strode deeper, proud and confident, until the she dipped low enough to dunk her balls in the water. She jumped back with a high pitched, piping squeak. "Eee! Cold!" Yves bit down hard on his bottom lip to keep from laughing as he watched SB shiver and crouch. "Well," SB said, "I'll fix that soon enough." She gave Yves one last, admonishing look. "I'm not Tomoe; I mean exactly what I say."

  "And I'm not Dee," Yves said. "I don't touch my plate just because the waiter warns me that it's hot."

  SB dazzled Yves with her smile, then gazed out over the dark water. "I haven't done this in a long, long time," she said, waded in deeper, and vanished below the surface.

  Yves sat up, crossed his legs, draped SB's dress across his lap, and waited for something to happen. He watched the clear sky, half-expecting dramatic, stormy clouds to scud in over the horizon. None came. The sun climbed closer to the zenith of noon, warming the still air.

  "Is this when I say 'It's quiet, too quiet'?" Yves shaded his eyes, scanned the tree line, then peered over the reservoir. "Hello? Ah, well. Thinking cap time, I guess." Okay, there's no denying that I'm caught up in Dee's story, or whatever fairytale he started when he bought his nanomek, then derailed by making Galatea first. "Is that all this is? Just part of Dee's story? SB?" After all, I didn't buy anything from SRU. I didn't start anything. Did I?

  ["…It's not my fault. I was perfectly happy being alone and miserable back at the bar. You were the one who decided to drop by and try and cheer me up, if you care to recall…"]

  Yves stood up. The dress fell. He cupped his mouth and hallooed over the reservoir, ire rising with every word. "So all this happened because I chose to cheer a friend up? That's all it takes get stuck in my own fairytale? And why the fuck did it have to start with some psycho-bitch fucking me in the ass?"

  A wave of sultry heat rolled over the shore. The whispery woodland sounds died. Whitecap waves chopped up in the heart of the reservoir many yards away. Yves folded his arms. "That's more like it." The heat grew oppressive. The whitecaps churned into a growing circle of froth. "Wait a minute." The fizzing whitewater expanded, raced closer. The air turned savanna-hot. "Uh, SB?" At the water's edge, steam rose and wildgrass wilted. "The, uh, lake's starting to boil." Columns of steam wafted skyward and the roiling waters boiled like a sign of the Apocalypse.

  Yves backpedaled away from the shoreline as the ambient temperature rose from sizzling savanna to roasting sauna, hot enough to scald his throat or even burn his lungs if he risked breathing in through his mouth. Yves' hair frizzed out and fountained around his head in a cross between a bowl cut and an overgrown spider plant. His voice cracked and croaked.

  "Is it too late to say, 'Pygmalion'?"

  The columns of steam condensed into billowing walls of mist, carried to the lakeshore by waves of heat. Yves' thumb prickled. Water, he thought, as the thick trails of mist moved in. She didn't say 'Don't go in the lake.' She said, 'Don't touch the water.' The temperature continued to climb and Yves felt faint. The water's coming to me but I doubt that makes any difference. What do I do? Do I run? He cast about, made his decision—No—and dove for the picnic blanket, throwing it over himself just as the first tendrils of mist coiled onto the shore.

  Yves lay in darkness and cool grass. No wonder this fabric felt familiar. The terrible heat buffeted the blanket above him. It's spun lace insulant, just like Ursula's high-tech potholders.

  The hissing from the lake stopped. Yves counted slowly to two hundred before testing the air: sultry as a New Orleans summer, but safe. He crawled out from under the blanket, the sho
re soupy and slippery beneath his hands and knees. The wild grass now resembled boiled cabbage, browned and overcooked. The reservoir was becalmed. Mist licked across the smoothed water. The hush heightened Yves' awareness of his own nudity and exposure. He adopted a ready stance.

  A silvered blade rose from the reservoir, piercing the surface without a ripple. SB soon followed, striving in a weary swagger toward the shore, holding a sword aloft above her head. Dark water swirled around her bare legs, her flaccid but still massive dick slapping against her inner thighs. Her eyes were dim and unfocused, her frown severe. Her muscles trembled, as did her voice. "Yves Valiancourt!"

  "I am here," Yves said, surprised at his own formality.

  An exhausted smile lit up SB's face. She stepped onto the shore, seemed to see Yves clearly. "Yves Valiancourt."

  "I am he." His heart in his throat, his blood signing, he added in whisper, "'SB' doesn't really stand for 'Strawberry Banana,' does it?"

  SB at last lowered her arm, resting the flat of the blade across both her palms. "No," she whispered back. "It does not." She fell to one knee before Yves, head bowed. She sighed, raising her arms to present Yves with a long, curved blade the color of frozen moonlight.

  "I have borne you a sword, Yves Valiancourt."

  Yves hefted the sword. The grip, wrapped in a braided weave of rose silk cord, could accommodate two hands but felt equally comfortable in one. The round guard had been forged from a midnight purple alloy Yves could not identify. The sharpened, single edge ran along the outside of the blade, longer and more curved than the samurai swords seen in the movies. It took a moment for Yves to find his voice. "How did you know?"

  SB glanced up, grinning. "The tanto you have in your shirt—neat trick, by the way, can't believe I didn't notice it until I was feeling you up. You've got the tanto slung the wrong way 'round for typical katana work. And you weren't exactly subtle back in the SRU parking lot." Kalidescope eyes sparkled. "I could tell you were a tachi man."

  Yves smoothed his thumb over the flat of the pearlescent blade; slick but not sticky. "What is it?" He held it up. It refused to reflect the sunlight. This is what's left when you take away the metal but leave the edge, the lethality, behind, Yves thought. This is the ghost of a sword. "SB, what did you do?"

  SB stood. "I told you you'd be surprised," she said, chest heaving as she caught her breath. "The things you can spin from carbohydrates and the trace elements found in freshwater. But the process gives off so much waste heat I have to jump in a lake or spontaneously combust. Anyway, it's a metallofullerene core edged in aggregated nanorods folded into a fractal lattice serration…What's with that face? Constipated?"

  "This is my 'processing technobabble face'," Yves said, stepping back, testing the feel of the deadly thing. "Metallofullerene core: more ductile than steel." SB nodded, so Yves struggled on with his translation. "Aggregated nanorods: harder than diamond." SB nodded again, her grin growing wide. "Fractal lattice…" He squinted at the edge. It remained out-of-focus. "What's its effective cutting surface?" he asked. SB scratched her head. "If you straightened out all those microscopic serrations but kept the same surface area," Yves continued, "how long would the blade be?"

  "Ten," SB shrugged. "Maybe up to eleven." Her grin returned, positively shit-eating, and she added, "Kilometers."

  "So," Yves said, trying a two hand grip. "Fractal lattice serration: sharp enough to cut through, what, solid rock?"

  "Honey," SB sighed, "you could cut a diamond Sherman tank in half with that thing. And diamond is one of the hardest, if not the hardest, metals known to man." Yves just stood there, brow furrowed, so SB grumped, "Dee would've laughed that joke."

  "That's my point," Yves said, turning away from SB to gaze over the tree line. "I mean, shouldn't Dee be here, not me? Doesn't Arthur get Excalibur?"

  "Aw, don't be an idiot." SB gave Yves a dismissive but playful shove on the back. "Arthur's just a myth. Never existed."

  "Oh, ha, ha."

  "I'm serious. Arthur and Lancelot: both total bullshit."

  "But, still," Yves muttered, "shouldn't Dee…?"

  "Not everything's about Dee," SB insisted behind him. "Besides, Gawain got the green girdle. Yvain got the sword."

  Yves would only stare down at the ghosted blade. "I don't know who those two guys were." Except one killed the other, according to Eurydice. "Unyx would know. She's a superhero. Like Dee. Like the rest of them." Yves' thumb prickled.

  SB clucked deep in her throat. "Fine."

  Yves whirled around, arms whipping up. Pale sword met pink scimitar a few inches away from his face. The two blades rang together in a crystalline tone as pure as two matched tuning forks. Yves boggled at the anger simmering in SB's eyes. "What did I…"

  "Have it your way, then," SB growled and kicked Yves' left knee out from under him. Yves toppled backward. SB brought her blade whistling down at Yves' exposed neck.

  Yves rode his collapse into a controlled tumble. SB's pink scimitar sank into the sodden earth. "You're quick," SB said, wresting the scimitar from the ground, whisking it high and behind her head. "Damn quick for someone who says he's not a superhero."

  Yves sprang to his feet, pale sword ready in a two-handed grip. "Victory is not getting cut." He found his center and sought a Kamae, a kendo fencing ready stance. "That's not superheroic," he said, thinking, This is no kendo match and she isn't holding a practice staff. "That's just smart." He tipped his blade up, and entered a textbook perfect Water Kamae, reciting, "If you've thought of cutting, it's too late to cut." Her grip is tight. She's not ready. Don't move until you see it. "You must have already cut when you think of cutting."

  SB's fingers relaxed. The scimitar's haft slipped a hairsbreadth downward. There. Yves angled his blade a few degrees, its tip pointed at SB's eyes. Now.

  SB swung her scimitar down in a blurred arc. Yves was already moving, closing the distance to level the advantage of an overhead strike. The scimitar accelerated downward. He rotated his own sword. The scimitar rebounded and SB dropped back. Sport-drink red sweat beaded her bare breasts. Yves rotated back to his Water stance and waited.

  "Your banter is pretty pithy," SB snarled, this time bringing her blade low and back, "for someone who says he's not a superhero."

  Yeah, why the Hell am I bantering? "That's just my inner Dee talking," Yves said, and, feeling as uncertain as he sounded, he shifted his stance and lost his center.

  "I know you're a superhero, Yves, and I know that you know." The pink scimitar swept up and out. Anticipating a feint designed to push him further off-center, Yves risked a sidestep—but SB swiveled her hips and double-feinted, her huge blade whirring faster than Yves thought possible. He walked right into an upswing about to crack open his chest like a book.

  His thumb prickled. There was a screech of glass grinding against glass. Without thinking, Yves had leaned into the fatal swing. The scimitar grated over the flat of his blade until the guards of both swords clicked together. Yves and SB stood nose-to-nose, their swords locked together between them.

  "I know you're a superhero, Yves," SB said, straining to break the lock and earn the riposte, "because despite all your training, all that muscle memory telling you to strike after each defense, you haven’t even tried to cut me yet." SB narrowed her eyes, her face slick with sport-drink sweat. "Only the good guys are dumb enough to do that."

  Yves hissed, every ounce of his strength channeled into his effort to hold the lock. "That's not it." SB arched a brow and Yves conceded, "Alright, that's not just it."

  The swords squealed in protest as their wielders forced them a fraction of an inch one way and then the other. SB gritted her teeth. "What else, then?"

  Yves began, "This is…" SB yanked the scimitar's guard away and Yves dredged up reserves of stamina he did not know he had to clamp the pale sword's guard down hard, locking the blades again. "This is so fucking hot," he gushed.

  SB gasped and relaxed her grapple. "Oh, Jesus, Yves, you should see." She pres
sed her leg into his groin; his growing erection crawled up her thigh, became spotted with sport-drink sweat. "You should see how fucking amazing you look." She let her sword fall to her side, one hand squeezing its ruby pommel, the other winding around Yves' neck to pull him into a summer-sweet lip-lock. "Ride me, Yves," she said, and kissed him again. "Fuck me." And again. "Fuck me, now."

  Yves dropped his sword. It sunk into the ground up to the hilt. He squeezed the rose-colored thigh rubbing against him, relishing the feel of SB's lithe but steely frame. He urgently reached for SB's groin, yearning to squeeze something else—and poked SB in the pussy.

  The bishi and the dickgirl yelped in shock and surprise, and glared at each other before spluttering embarrassed giggles and snickers. "Sorry, I'm so sorry." Yves blushed beet red. "Totally forgot."

  SB waggled the pommel of her sword. "It's over here, Sherlock." She plucked it up, and proffered the pink scimitar to Yves. She pouted and rocked her hips. The longing look she gave him could have raised the dead. "Would you make a man out of me?"

  Yves took up the oversized scimitar, heard SB's gasp as he gripped the polished quartz handle. He marveled at the sense of power in potentia it possessed, remembering the feeling from when he had held it before, back in the SRU parking lot: an almost drunken empowerment. "How do I?"

  SB whimpered her need and drove two shaky fingers into her sex, her burning eyes never leaving his.

  Yves was awestruck. Mother of God. "Lie down, sword bearer." SB stumbled and sprawled supine onto the picnic blanket. Yves fell to his knees beside her, clutching her sword. He goggled at the plum-sized ruby in the pommel, glanced down at SB's cleft. No way. No way can this thing fit.

  Head lolling, SB spread her legs and parted her flush labia with trembling hands. "Please," she said, unabashed.

  I can't believe this. Yves' head swam. I can't believe this is happening, that I'm doing this. He brought the sword-pommel close to SB's cleft. I can't believe this is making me so God-damned, mother-fucking horny. "Tomoe," Yves said, his breath haggard. "Tomoe made you like this?"